“Remember,” the trees jabber from outside.
I trace a fingertip on the floor of the little wooden chest, examining the grain for any hint of inconsistency, for something unusual but inconspicuous. Suddenly, a small pit in the wood, a tiny blond knothole, just barely catches against my skin. Breathlessly, I tug along one of the walls of the chest and feel the whole inner wall give ever so slightly.
My fingers follow the steps of an old dance from childhood; they know exactly what to do. Pulling the left interior wall up and out of place, where it shimmies free like a sliding tile, I flip it around and press it back down in position. With a soft plink a hidden tray pops out from the base of the chest, gliding open like a shallow drawer. There, in the tray, lies a small blackened key.
How on earth did they manage it?
I know that even with a key I’ll have to get past the Margrave’s guards. I never sent word through the kitchen porter to Bran, so he won’t be waiting for me below. I’m on my own. I console myself that it might be safest to go now, when no one, not even Bran or the makers suspect it. That way, if I fail, I fail alone and put no one else at risk. Even the kitchen porter would be in danger for aiding me. Shakily, I palm the key, sweating through my dress, still wavering.
Do I go now? Or do I wait? Should I take my chance at freedom from the Margrave and run, or wait and hope to gain freedom from my splinters?
I know without question who snuck into Curio through my bedroom cupboard and discovered the chest and the Lady Cosima and knew how to use them to help me. I hate to leave my marionettes, but like a stick honed to a point, my resolve to take the chance to be out from under the Margrave’s thumb and free to be with the boy I love grows sharper. Bran and all my makers have sacrificed so much to help me escape. Do I dare scorn their hard-won gift by staying here?
Seeing Prima, her hands still wet and drying, tears fill my eyes and I know what I must do. Regardless of her final end, I know I’ve done something good by building her, something worthwhile. She may never be finished, but perhaps that’s for the best. The Margrave will be forced to find a bride elsewhere, and she’ll never be awakened to suffer his presence. As much as it hurts to leave her behind, I convince myself I am doing her a kindness. Giving Prima a final kiss on her bare scalp, I grab my cloak and walk around the gallery, saying my goodbyes.
In just a few short days, the Margrave will be expecting just as much from me as he will from the blue moon. I still haven’t given him the words of the spell that awakened me; I avoid the subject whenever he brings it up. I fear that both of us, the moon and I, shall prove to be a grave disappointment.
CHAPTER 25
PLACING MY HAND ON THE THICK WOODEN DOOR OF THE GALLERY, I put my ear to the crack. At this hour, the halls are silent. Hopefully the man stationed at my door is drowsy. Do I create a disturbance, bringing him in so the door is unlocked for me, or do I attempt to use the key? I’m unsure of how to talk my way past the guard once the door is unlocked, so I opt for a diversion. Unlike Nan, I have no faith in my feminine wiles.
Thinking quickly, I grab the Margrave’s little whipping boy and wrench the nearly broken arm completely from his body. Using my candle, I pass the torn arm through the fire, charring the wood and rapidly setting it aflame. I toss it through the open glass doors onto the stone floor of the conservatory and throw the rest of the body after it, hearing it crash to the floor in a pathetic tangle.
Good riddance. I despise that ugly, sad little puppet.
Then, I scream. In seconds, the door opens and a guard rushes in.
“Quickly!” I implore him. “There’s a fire in the conservatory; it’s one of the Margrave’s favorite marionettes!”
At the mention of fire, the guard turns ashen and runs into the domed greenhouse. Like a wraith I slide through the open door and into the hall, free for the first time in weeks. I decide not to go the way I remember being brought in, figuring that will take me past the Margrave’s main living quarters and library, and instead look for a back hall or passage, one the servants might use.
Drawing my hood up and clutching my key, I trail my fingers on the stone walls, watery torchlight my only guide. I make a left, and then a right, trying to scurry but not outright run, keeping my feet light, as I imagine my saboteur would.
Where is she now?
Up ahead, I see a glowing doorway, overflowing with men’s voices droning over ale and cards. I press myself against the wall and slide along, flattening around a far corner, attempting to move without making a sound. I breathe a sigh of relief when I succeed in remaining out of sight.
Ducking around the next corner, I inhale a scream as I come face to face with new obstacles. Wooden ones. The Margrave’s animated wooden soldiers stand sentry in the narrow hallway, three abreast, each with a fresh sword from the blacksmith in their grasp.
Seeing me, they tilt their heads and square their legs for a fight. Their eyes remain wide and unblinking, seeming to see everything and nothing all at once. I cannot go back the way I came, knowing the guard at my door will have put the fire out and realized I escaped. He will be on me in a moment. I
